It's Time
by SarahHolmes
Summary: Months after Sherlock's death, John goes to the Baker St. flat and discovers Sherlock's diaries from the last few years. He reads them and learns more about Sherlock's early cases and clues to where he might be.


**From the Memoirs of John Hamish Watson**

**Winter 2013**

**-Chapter One-**

**Monday, December 16****th****, 2013**

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"John Hamish Watson! How are you doing, dear? It's been such a long time," Mrs. Hudson replied, reaching over to kiss me on the cheek. I gave her a hug.

"I know, I know. I haven't been by in a while," I replied. I found that I couldn't meet her eyes. "Say, can I stop in? I won't be long."

"Sure, dear, of course. It's your flat, after all. I'm just your landlady. Come right in," Mrs. Hudson said, opening the door wider, welcoming me back to the stairwell that I knew so well.

"I see your limp is back, John. Is everything all right?" Mrs. Hudson said as she walked behind me up to the flat.

I winced. I had been hoping she wasn't going to notice that.

"Yeah, I think it's just the weather. You know, it's been so cold and rainy lately," I said.

"It sure has. My hip has been bothering me, too," Mrs. Hudson replied and started to trail off into a detailed account of all that ailed her hip. I tuned her out for the rest of the trip up the staircase.

Reaching the door to the flat, I paused. I was so used to it being open, to walking in and finding my friend there pacing around purposefully, shooting the wall laconically, or paralyzed in a kind of stupor that I could awake him from only sometimes. Knowing that I wouldn't be finding that now, I mentally prepared myself for the shock while studying the door.

"Where have you been staying?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "I worry about you, dear."

"Over in Kensington. With my girlfriend," I replied. I chose to overlook her questioning expression.

"I didn't know you have got a girlfriend. What is her name?" she asked.

"Mary. Actually, we're getting married. I wanted to stop by to invite you," I said.

Mrs. Hudson seemed torn.

"Are you sure you do not want to wait until..." she said, trailing off. We were silent for a moment until I broke the ice.

"Until what, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked quietly.

"Until... well... if Sherlock comes back?" she said, voicing what we both wanted to be true.

"Mrs. Hudson, I think we have to face the facts. He isn't coming back. He's dead," I said, my voice catching. I cleared my throat and looked away.

"Of course he is, dear. I just, you know, hold out hope, I guess," she said sadly.

"I know, Mrs. Hudson. I did that for many months, but I think we have to accept that he is gone," I answered, trying to sound rational. I decided to keep that side of me that tossed and turned at night wondering if Sherlock had somehow lived to myself.

"Oh, look at me. I am getting teary now. Do you need any help with the room?" Mrs. Hudson said. "I never was clear if you were going to keep it."

"I will," I said firmly. "For now."

"All right. Well, I will leave you to it," she replied, leaving me at the door. I could hear a few sniffles as she retreated down the steps.

I sighed deeply and reached in my pocket. Pulling out the key, I hesitated, shook my head, and then opened the door.

I stepped inside. It was dark; the curtains were closed. I walked over to the overhead light switch and switched it on.

My flat. _Our_ flat. Familiar once, foreign now. I found my breathing becoming hoarse.

"Pull it together, John," I whispered to myself.

I made my way over to the windows and opened up the curtains. Sitting in my favorite chair by the fireplace, I closed my eyes and just sat there for a while, taking it all in. The faint smell of chemicals and formaldehyde lingered in the air. The quiet tick tock of the clock on the mantelpiece sounded the seconds going by. The sound of water moving down the pipes broke the heavy silence, all things I was able to discern easily now that I had spent a year and a half of my life living with someone who once told me that I only saw, not observed.

"Right," I thought, "I better get it and get out of here while I still have some composure."

Walking over to the desk, I rifled through the papers burying the letter I was looking I was hoping would be there.

Yet again, I was out of work. After Sherlock died, obviously the money we were pulling in from the detective work dried up. I was living on next to no income save for the veterans allowance I had, so I was forced to get a job working at an outpatient surgery clinic. It didn't last long; they said I wasn't putting my heart in it, and it was true that I was getting snippy with patients. I was distracted, I guess. But now I felt ready to work, or maybe that was just the creeping desperate necessity talking. I didn't want to work; I wanted one thing, and one thing only. And he wasn't coming back.

I found it. The letter that Sherlock told me would be there. A letter of reference from him. It was still closed, fastened shut with his signature seal. I grabbed an envelope slitter lying nearby and tore open the letter.

Opening the letter up, I frowned. A tiny gold key slipped out from the crease and fell on the floor. The letter was not typed. In fact, it only had seven words written on it, seven words written in ink.

"John—

Use the key to find me.

-S"

Puzzled, I bent down and picked up the key. Thanks to living with Sherlock, I was now able to read a key quite well. It was a skeleton key, so it most likely didn't unlock any modern door that I have encountered. The elaborate head of the key was fashioned in the unmistakable style of a trinity Celtic knot. The blade had two short rectangle bits sticking out of the shank, which was about three inches long.

"Think, John. Celtic knot. A trinity. What could that mean?" I said out loud. I doubted it had anything to do with Christianity, as Sherlock didn't believe in such things as religion. Pagan? Possibly. But then again, why would Sherlock have anything to do with Paganism? I racked my brains for any and all things he had ever said related to Paganism.

I looked wildly around the room. I didn't see anything remotely pagan. "What would he have to lock?" I thought, going to my very own "mind palace" to think.

"John, dear, would you like some…"

"Mrs. Hudson! Come here, please!" I shouted from where I stood.

Mrs. Hudson walked in the open door and set the tea tray down on the kitchen table, which was now empty of all the beakers, test tubes, and pickled human eyes that it used to seat.

"What is it, John?" she said, coming over to me. "You look upset."

"What is in here that could be locked up by this little key? Have you seen this before?" I asked, trying to convey how urgent the situation was.

"Of course, dear. I gave this desk to Sherlock after he helped me many years ago. It was my grandfather's. My mother's side of the family is Irish. This key unlocks the desk drawer," Mrs. Hudson said, taking the key out of my hands and hurrying over to the other side of the desk. "See?"

She fixed the key into the hole and turned it once. I heard a satisfying click as the key fit into the lock. Mrs. Hudson opened the door and then gasped.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I said as I limped over to her. "What is it?"

Following her eyes, I saw it. A stack of black notebooks with the initials _**S.H.**_ stamped on the covers in gold type filled the drawer. There were at least six of them. "So there they are," I thought. I'd seldom seen Sherlock write in these notebooks, and I never saw him actually put them away anywhere. I suppose I always thought they were notes from uni he was consulting or something that had to do with his unpredictable, narrow interests.

I picked up one of the notebooks and opened it up. Sure enough, there was Sherlock's unmistakable cramped handwriting which had been so difficult for me to decipher when I first knew him. The first one I picked up had a title page on the inside cover.

"_The Journals of Sherlock Holmes"_

_Volume 1_

_Spring-Summer 2010_

"Oh my god," I said.

"John, what are they?"

"Oh my god," I repeated.

"John? Are you all right?"

"Mrs. Hudson, I think I am going to need a full teapot," I said, dazed. "And some time alone," I added quietly.


End file.
